


Moiety

by Cuptivate



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, But also a bit thick, Dis won't be happy, Dwalin Is A Softie, F/M, Heartbreak, Home, Loneliness, Psychological Trauma, The whole Company is, after BoFA, figments of imagination, life in erebor, love of words, trauma from grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-03 10:24:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14566977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuptivate/pseuds/Cuptivate
Summary: You didn't cope well with life after you lost your parents. Locking yourself away from society you spent your days largely alone and in silence. Until thirteen dwarrow (one you nursed tender admiration for) and one wizard took you on an adventure and you learned the difference between content and happy. But once Erebor is reclaimed they are all so very busy - and seem to forget you are even there. Can you go back to an isolated, quiet life?





	1. Solivagant

**Author's Note:**

> A new story. Hope you like it :)  
> Cuptivate is on Pinterest, and this story has it's own board.
> 
> moiety (n) - one of two equal parts / in organic chemistry: a part of a functional group of a large molecule / in anthropology: one or two distinct groups of a tribe / in law: one of two parts of property ownership  
> solivagant (adj) - wandering alone, solitary wandering

You watched as Dwalin rolled Latág on her back with a grunt, straddling her waist. The gorgeous black haired dam didn’t hesitate for a moment but kicked him in the back with her knee before skillfully twisting her body under him in a rather clever move and rolling them so she was leaning over him. Her arms came to rest next to his head and she laughed down into his face, her thick braids hanging around them both like a curtain.

Not for the first time you couldn’t help but wonder if they were each other’s One’s. Ori had explained what finding his or her One meant for dwarrow.

Hobbits certainly didn’t have One’s, but a hobbit’s Heart Call was not something to be trifled with either; the Green Lady very much nurturing natural instincts in her creation.

“Nicely done,” Dís boomed two rows down from you and rose, clapping her hands in appreciation of the wrestler’s skills. Belladonna Baggins’ smile was rather sour when she gave a slow clap or two before dropping her hands into her lap again with a grim expression. Bungo gave her a little scandalized frown, his translucent, milky-white appearance flickering in the early-morning sun that was reflected back into the mountain through a cleverly constructed mirror-system.

Latág got to her feet and extended a hand to the tall warrior, pulling him up. Dwalin said something and the dam laughed, responding, in turn making him throw his head back and roar his amusement.

It was the last straw.

You silently slunk away. _He was happy_.

Dwalin was happy.

The dwarf you nursed tender admiration for because he was all the things you were not - confident, disciplined, strong, determined and caring (to his friends and family anyway) - was happy.

Ever since Dís arrived from Ered Luin almost three months ago and with her a whole cohort of dwarrow including dwarrowdams, Dwalin was constantly surrounded by said dams, all of them fanning over him. Some more dams had arrived from the Iron Hills, and suddenly the members of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield were the center of all the precious female attention in Erebor.

Even proper Dori was seen to laugh and flirt with a dam or two.

And you knew that Balin had been invited for dinner by Olinda, a rather stern dam with little bells in her beard that tinkled with her every move, the King’s advisor accepting the offer with much twinkle in his eyes.

And Dwalin, strong, fierce Dwalin, the dwarf who hadn’t shown more facial expressions than his formidable scowl and dissecting frown throughout the whole quest now was smiling _all the time_ , his full-teeth grin wide and happy, his rumbling voice telling animatedly about the quest and his booming laugh echoing through the halls and corridors.

You _assumed_ that he was speaking about the quest anyway, picking up only a few names here and there, but as all of them now always spoke in Khuzdul without bothering to remember that it was supposedly a secret language and not to be spoken around non-dwarrow, you couldn’t be sure.

Yes, you were the only non-dwarrow in the mountain.

Which proved a point.

_They had forgotten that you were there._

Nobody noticed you.

Which wasn’t anything new, really, even in the Shire you were pretty much invisible, ignored and shunned by all and sundry, spending your time largely on your own. You were used to it.

_Your own fault_ , your father scolded, straightening his waistcoat primly before folding his hands behind his back. _Proper hobbits don’t lock themselves away from society. They attend family gatherings and invite relations to tea_. You rubbed your nose while your mother swatted his arm.

Still, it stung.

You had followed Thorin after all, when only twelve others from his kin had joined his quest. You had saved them more than once and you had helped them regain their mountain.

But of course, you were only a hobbit.

And in a mountain full of dwarrow you _didn’t matter_.

There used to be an evening a week where the Company would get together for dinner. Back then they still shared their thoughts and plans about the mountain’s restorations with you. You had made sure not to miss a single one, treasuring every moment with them - considering that they all were so _busy_ or otherwise occupied - but one day you had walked into the room where you always had gathered to find it empty. The fire hadn’t been lit and the chairs and table sat alone in a room that was dark.

Clearly, the dinners were not happening any more with all the better options for dinner companions in the mountain now.

Because who would want to sit at the table with a lone hobbit lass when there were cleverer, more beautiful and more skilled females around?

You had gone straight to bed that night, the loneliness filling you so completely that you weren’t even hungry for food any more.

 

 ~*~

 

“You could move to Dale,” Bard suggested, when he picked up on the lively atmosphere between Company and dams at a recent feast in the mountain and noticed you sitting by yourself. “We need someone who knows about growing food. Your expertise in plants and farming would be very much appreciated.”

Your mother nodded from where she was sitting next to your father on a bench behind you and clapped her hands in excitement, her hair bobbing with her every move, the curly ringlets falling over her milky white shoulders.

 

~*~

 

You waited another month.

Just to see if things would change.

If the first excitement about getting all that extra attention would maybe wane. If any would remember that you were still there.

But it was not to be.

Ori, who you had the most interaction with as he saw you almost daily while you helped in the library was now very distracted by Poula, a fellow scribe he had already worked with in Ered Luin. The dam had joined you in the library one day and the two of them now spent most of their time pouring over parchments and whispering in Khuzdul. There had been a conversation about you writing your views about the Quest that helped the dwarrow reclaim their mountain, and Ori seemed rather interested in the result, he even encouraged you to go ahead with the work. But then again, Ori didn’t even realize when you left the library at midday one day, because he was busy talking to Poula, having little time for any of your questions, and even when you didn’t come back for a couple of weeks he didn’t seem to miss your presence.

It stung.

You also helped Bombur with keeping a tap on the provisions and cooking duty - just like you had during the quest. Certainly now it was on a much bigger scale and instead of a campfire you had the highly impressive kitchens of the Kingdom Under the Mountain at your disposal. But the kitchens became a really _busy_ place with all the new dwarrow arriving. And the amount of food that needed to be prepared reached quantities you struggled with, even as a hobbit.

A few weeks back Bombur had briefly spoken to you about chicken pie and you were happy to help figuring out how to cook your father’s famous recipe while being restricted by rather stringent rationing. While you were there it became apparent that Bombur’s head was all over the place, not only in commanding a small army of cooks and kitchen helpers, but also because of his wife and children that had arrived from Ered Luin. The latter were certainly a good reason to be preoccupied, and you didn’t begrudge him his family bliss, even though you watched wistfully when he left you standing in the kitchen to laugh with his offspring.

The last straw was when Dwalin and the boys lead a patrol out of the mountain, to deal with a pack of orcs that had been sighted on the east side of the Long Lake; remnants of the orc army no doubt. You heard a few guards mention it early one morning in the communal hall when you had some breakfast on your own: apparently the patrol would be gone for a good week, if not longer. You weren’t surprised that Dwalin didn’t say goodbye to you but you were disappointed that neither Fili nor Kili stopped by to invite you to see them off at the Great Gate.

Gnawing on your bottom lip, as you always did when you tried hard to hold back tears you walked back into your room and sat down on your bed, thinking hard what you could do.

But that was just it, wasn’t it?

There was _nothing_ you could do.

You had nothing _to do_. You had no chores. No interaction with anyone. And all your free time did was make you dwell on your loneliness and wallow in self-pity.

Yes, you had a tendency to not think much of yourself and unfortunately somehow life kept constantly reminding you that you were just not worth it. It had been like that in the Shire, and it certainly was no different here. You sniffed a little and kicked against a nonexistent small rock on the floor. “I don’t know why I’m surprised,” you said quietly in the empty air of the room, “My own family has long given up on me, calling me odd, moody, mad, unsocial, improper. It’s no wonder the Company figured it out eventually, took them long enough.”

Both your parents sighed, their expressions fond and caring but exasperated. _You are a wonderful person, Bilbo,_ your mother said and smiled at you, her translucent form flittering in a nonexistent breeze. _If but with a bit too little trust in yourself. Really not sure where you have that from._ You rolled your eyes. “You tell me,” you muttered under your breath, “Maybe I am true Halfling, being half a Took and half a Baggins, lacking the good qualities either side values.”

_None of that sass, daughter mine_ , Bungo said, waving a stern finger. _No hobbit is half of anything, least of all my daughter._ Your mother also rolled her eyes, but it was more aimed at her husband and his Baggins’ propriety. You shared a little grin with her glittering milky white figure before looking at the smooth stone floor again.

A sigh that sounded even to your ears more like a sob escaped you.

You had always been told you were a fool. Clearly they were all correct, since you were foolish enough to believe that you mattered to the Company, now that the Erebor was reclaimed.

You had to get out of this hopeless situation.

After the battle you couldn’t wait to get into the mountain, having quite enough of the tent city outside of Dale and being well over hard bare earth to sleep on. A bed, any bed, out of the unforgiving environments seemed a lovely idea.

But now, months later,  you missed fresh air and sunshine. And you missed your garden in Bag End to the point of almost painful memories of tastes of fresh produce and the smell of flowers and grass after a bit of gentle rain.

You remembered Bard’s offer.

So you packed your bags; the pitiful amount of things you now ‘owned’. Things you had dragged into your dark, small room from the piles of rubbish that still were heaped up almost every day by the clearing crews: a teapot with no handle, but it was made from a pretty green glass that reminded you of new leaves in spring; a shoulder wrap that you had cut from what may have been a bed curtain at some stage, but it was soft and had kept you warm many a night during the long, harsh winter; a blanket that must have covered a much larger bed than yours, which was just as well, as it was rather badly singed by dragon fire, but you had cut the burnt edges off and attached some tassels you made from the silken threads of discarded tapestries during your long, lonely evenings.

The next morning, when you were just about to leave, out of the blue, Lady Dís sent a message and invited you to tea. Since it didn’t really matter whether you left this day or the next you changed into one of the dresses you had sown for yourself from a reasonable green fabric you purchased from a merchant in the markets and soon found yourself in her parlor.

“This is a lovely dress,” the impeccably clothed princess said, looking you up and down with a critical eye after pouring a lovely fragrant black tea into a golden teacup, “Of course now that we have access to much better fabric as well as the appropriate craft masters you can easily commission one that suits you even better.”

“Of course,” you said politely with a small smile, not mentioning that you had visited Dori’s new shop to talk to him about fabrics for a new dress or even a coat but he had been busy dealing with three dams that needed advice regarding one thing or another and had been rather distracted. You hadn’t had the heart to go back after he left you standing when you barely said the first sentence, despite your father’s grumbling. _Exceptionally bad manners for a shop keeper, that’s what it is._

“I wonder what we can do about your hair,” Dís continued thoughtfully, squinting at the mop of curls on your head, barely contained by the lose braid you tended to roll into a bun low at your neck.

“My hair?” you squeezed, blinking in confusion, accepting the sugar with a polite nod of thanks.

“Ah, well, it’s not exactly in dwarrow style, isn’t it,” she said rather bluntly.

“Naturally,” you admitted flatly while stirring your cup, “As I am a hobbit.”

Her eyes widened a bit at that, but she refrained from responding, instead taking a sip from her tea and focusing on putting her cup down with much care. She took a honey biscuit, offering the plate also to you, but you declined politely. You didn’t feel like eating.

_Don’t be rude,_ your father admonished, _Not to eat what’s offered when invited to tea - it’s not to be born.”_

_Leave her be,_ your mother told him _, This does not feel like an invitation of the nice sort._

You wholeheartedly agreed, folded your hands in your lap and tried not to fidget.

“So,” Dís continued after a while, “What have you been keeping busy with of late?”

You shrugged. “Not much,” you admitted. And you realized you might as well come out with it. “Which is just as well as I will be leaving Erebor tomorrow and head for Dale. To assist with soil cultivation and food growing and such.”

Dís nearly choked on her biscuit. “Why,” she coughed with tears in her eyes, “Why in Mahal’s name would you want to leave Erebor?”

You shrugged again, keeping your tone light. “I have nothing to do in the mountain. My services to the King are no longer required. My contract was long fulfilled. In Dale I can still be useful. So I will be going to Dale.”

“But ... but I thought you were busy in the library,” she protested, “You were helping Ori.”

You nodded your head. “I did. I have catalogued all books in Westron and the few in Sindarin and I have transcribed the ones Ori deemed useful from Sindarin into Westron. But that work is all done. Now there are only books in Khuzdul left. And since I’m not allowed to learn Khuzdul ...” you trailed off with a shrug, wriggling your toes slightly and leaving the sentence hanging in thin air, “I’ve stopped going to the library several weeks ago.”

She stared at you. “But you’re still helping in the kitchens?” she asked, “You’re helping Bombur with the cooking and finding new recipes?”

“Bombur is a very busy dwarf. Not only does he have to oversee several dozen dwarrow that help to keep the mountain fed, he is also spending much time with his family,” you informed her, “I am very happy for him that they are reunited. Family is important. And as the mountain is still living off rations there isn’t a great deal of inventive cooking being done just now. There is only so many ways of making a chicken pie after all.”

Her eyes narrowed at you. You could firmly hear the gears in her head working. “When is the last time you spoke to Thorin?” she asked suddenly.

“I’m not sure-“ you began with a frown, trying to remember. _Had it been that long?_

“To Balin?”

“It must have been just after the-“ _When he left the Company dinner early to meet that Olinda,_ Bungo said.

“Fili?”

“Not long ago in the training grounds.” _Bless that boy, he’s back to his former self after his injury from the battle,_ Belladonna smiled.

“Kili?”

“I think it was on the same-“ _He looks more sour every day without his elf._ You almost rolled your eyes at your mother _._

“Glóin?”

“Not since he introduced me to his lovely wife and son.” _Yavanna, family is important, but Glóin is so besotted it’s hard to take,_ Bungo grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Bofur?”

“At the last Company dinner.” _Whenever that was,_ you thought.

“Dwalin?”

_??_

“Dwalin has never much bothered to speak to me and now he’s mostly busy with Latág, unless he’s out on patrol of course, which he didn’t even bother telling me, and I really don’t see what all this has to do with anything,” you burst out hotly, before you snorted. “I did not realize an invitation to tea equals an interrogation about how I spend my private time.” You held the princess’ gaze as she looked at you, ignoring how her eyebrows had shot up into her hairline at your mentioning of the gorgeous dam.

You primly folded your serviette and placed it next to your unused golden plate. “Now if there is nothing else, I would ask that you excuse me, I have some packing to do.” Without waiting for a response you got up, curtsied quickly and left the parlor.

You sped down the hallway to your room and slammed the door shut behind you, breathing hard. _What is the matter with you?_ your father bristled, the Baggins in him appalled. _Not only did you yell at the King’s sister, but you also ran out on her, not even waiting for her to dismiss you. And you snubbed_ _her_ _food_. You shivered. Dís was known to have a temper, like all Durins; she’d be storming into your room any second for sure, dragging you out by your ear like a naughty fauntling, bringing you before the King to complain about your abhorrent manners.

Your mother’s disapproving face and crossed arms made you set your chin stubbornly and you stomped your foot. “Confusticate all dwarrow,” you grumbled, ignoring the pit in your stomach, “I am done with the lot of them.”

Without delaying another second you put on your coat, not even bothering to get changed into your travelling clothes, shouldered your pack and hoisted your bag onto your hip. It took mere moments to be out the room and cross the corridor silently at the end when the guard was looking the other way. Down the stairs and out the front gate in the shadow of a merchants cart. You stayed with the cart until you were a fair distance from the mountain and then stepped off the road and into the brambles, making your way to Dale in wide zig-zags.

When you arrived at King Bard’s large stone mansion it was getting dark. Your arms hurt from carrying the second bag and you were hungry and tired.

Bard came out immediately when his guards announced you.

He was obviously surprised to see you like this, and concerned. “I had hoped they give you an escort,” he grumbled, looking darkly towards the mountain, “I’m not very happy that you’ve walked on your own all this way. You’re not even armed.”

Yes, you had left Sting in a chest in your room. After seeing how even the dams could hold their own on the training grounds if felt like even more of a fluke that you had killed Azog with a stab in the neck. You would not be getting away with such luck again, therefore not needing a fancy weapon like Sting any more. You kept a small knife that you had found after the battle in a sheath strapped to your thigh, and you had kept the Mithril shirt. Those two items would be enough.

“They don’t know that I’ve left,” you said with a shrug, “And why would they give me an escort? They’ll barely even notice that I’m gone. And even if they do, none of them will make the time to bother coming after me. I’m not important enough, now that they’ve got their mountain back.”

Bard hummed at that but made no comment. He gave you into the care of his daughters, Sigrid and Tilda, who settled you in a pretty little room on the top floor.

It had wide windows facing South and overlooking their little personal garden - you could just make it out in the waning light of the day. The bed was soft and had a lovely quilted blanket, reminding you of home. A vase with fresh flowers stood on the small table and a desk under the second window held quills and parchment. You unpacked your meagre belongings. The teapot without handle went on the table, the blanket with the tassels on the bed. The clothes were stored away in the available closet and chest of drawers.

Sigrid had a bath prepared for you and you relished in being warm and clean for a change.

With a frown you smoothed out the crinkles on the dress that Dís had scrutinized. She had taken the joy out of wearing a dress you made for yourself with the best available means, but since you had nothing other than this or your travel trousers you chose to put the dress on again.

Bard and his children were lovely company at dinner. For the first time in a long time appetite accompanied your hunger and you managed to eat a good meal.

But when you crawled into your bed your heavy heart sank into your stomach once more and weighed you down as if you had eaten rocks. Dread and loneliness crept into your heart again. You would do your best to face the future, on your own if you had to, just as you had done every day since your parents died.

Even if the very thought of having to find the strength to hold yourself together nearly strangled you.

It took a long time to fall into a fitful, restless sleep.


	2. Quatervois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a hobbit is found and confronted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter for this little story :) Thank you everyone who took the time to read, leave comments and kudos. You guys rock xx
> 
> moiety (n) - one of two equal parts / in organic chemistry: a part of a functional group of a large molecule / in anthropology: one or two distinct groups of a tribe / in law: one of two parts of property ownership   
> solivagant (adj) - wandering alone, solitary wandering  
> quatervois (n) - a crossroads, a critical decision or turning point in one’s life

 

 

When you woke it was to the sound of yelling. It felt like you just had dozed off and you grumbled unhappily. _Can’t they keep it down, blast it all._ Your mother rubbed a tired hand over her face and wriggled in the chair at the window.

You blinked blearily, trying to make sense of your surroundings. The memory of what had happened the day before slowly came back. _Right, Dale_.

You frowned, trying to figure out where the yelling came from. Rolling on your back with a groan you rubbed your eyes. _Bard_ , you thought, _definitely Bard’s voice. And ... Dwalin’s?_

You sat up with a start. _Surely not. He’s on patrol._

Scrambling off the bed you left your room.

Tilda and Sigrid were at the other end of the hallway, peeking out of the window facing the front yard.

“What is going on?” you whispered, padding closer on silent feet.

The girls startled but relaxed immediately when they recognized you.

“The dwarrow are here,” Tilda explained, wide-eyed, gesturing at the window.

“What in Yavanna’s name do they want?” you mumbled, edging closer to risk a look.

“They’re here for you,” Sigrid said carefully, “The whole Company is here. Even the King. And the big one, Dwalin? He’s the one shouting. He seems quite ... agitated.”

You frowned.

Why would Dwalin be agitated? Did Dís tell him what you had said about Latág? Is that why he came back from patrol early?

That would be just typical. You had nothing against Latág, as long as Dwalin continued to laugh and smile as much as he did the last couple of months. He _deserved_ to be happy. You just could not _watch_ him be happy with Latág.

Yes, it was silly to be jealous – he wasn’t even yours.

Which hurt just the same.

Stepping next to Sigrid you lifted yourself on your toes to risk a look outside. The very moment you saw the Company fully armed and Thorin at his most kingly with Orcrist strapped to his side your insides clenched with worry. Then Dwalin, who was in his usual attire with his twin axes on his back, stopped pacing about and looked up at your window at the very same moment as you looked down. Your eyes met and he promptly stalked up to Bard, who you just now noticed standing in the middle of them, gesturing at you and the window. Bard turned and looked up as well. He said something to Thorin and went to walk inside.

You stepped back from the window, heart beating hard in your chest. You worried your hands and braced yourself when Bard came up the stairs with heavy steps and approached slowly.

“I had told them that you were sleeping,” he said rather gravely. “That you were exhausted, sad, thinner than you had been after the battle, in a dress that is too thin for the season and in the same old coat without buttons you were wearing when I first met you in Laketown, carrying bags that were too heavy for you and yet held next to nothing if this was to be all your belongings. I told them to wait until you woke on your own,” he paused, looking at you seriously, “Now, that you are awake though, my argument is futile. They want to see you. However, as you are my guest and my friend, if you do not want to see them just now I will happily convey the message and send them away until you are ready to face them. I should point out though that I get the feeling they won’t be so easily discouraged.”

You swallowed hard. _Did you really make such an ill kept impression?_

Your father nodded and threw his hands up exasperated. Your mother smoothed her own wild curls with her hands and smiled ruefully. _I am sorry you have inherited my hair_.

No wonder Dís hadn’t been too impressed with your hair and your dress. The princess had probably tried to tactfully broach the subject, to get the silly hobbit to scrub up as to not embarrass the Company.

“What do they want with me?” you whispered.

Bard smiled a small smile. “It seems they are in shock that you have left. Without explanation and without goodbye. Maybe,” he suggested gently, “you have misjudged their feelings for you.”

With a snort you shook your head. “It’s been weeks any of them really spoke to me.” You frowned, suddenly afraid.  “What if I go back with them and they don’t let me leave again?” You remembered the lecture you got from Thorin early on in the quest when you asked if you could learn Khuzdul. By now you had heard and learned a lot about their language and their ways. What if they felt they needed to keep you close so you couldn’t share your knowledge with the rest of Arda that was not dwarrow?

Dropping to one knee Bard placed a gentle hand on your shoulder and looked you straight in the eye. “If you have any doubt about your safety in the mountain I offer you sanctuary in my home for as long as you wish to stay. But I believe their feelings in this matter are genuine. They are truly upset and want to speak to you. Especially Dwalin. He is normally the one who keeps his emotions very close, I can never tell what he thinks, but today ... today he wears all his emotions on his sleeve.”

What?

He must be angry. To be so emotional, Dwalin must be angry.

_I don’t want Dwalin to be angry with me._

“So you ... you think I should talk to them?” you whispered with a little shudder.

“I do think it would be prudent for you to hear them out,” he replied, “We can do it in my office and if you do not wish to respond to them or need time to compose yourself I will assist you as best I can.”

“Ok,” you whispered, suddenly feeling very sick.

 

~*~

 

Bard insisted Sigrid helped you getting dressed and getting your hair done before coming down into his office, where he lead the Company to wait in the meanwhile.

Walking down the stairs with Sigrid you trembled and your palms began to sweat. Wiping them nervously at your dress, you tried to take a few calming breaths before Sigrid knocked on the door.

When Bard called ‘enter’ Sigrid pushed the door open and you inside, staying right beside you.

You kept your eyes on the floor, but even so you could feel everyone in the room turn around to face you. You swallowed hard and clenched your hands to fists at your sides, a ball of lead firmly settling deep in your stomach.

“Bilbo,” Bard said kindly and you lifted your eyes to look at him, “Are you ready to hear what the Company has to say?”

You licked your lips nervously. “Sure,” you whispered, quickly glancing around the room. It was impossible to read their expressions. But all looked grave and serious. Your stomach dropped all the way into your ankles and you couldn’t suppress a tremble.

“Bilbo?” That was Thorin.

You avoided looking at him until he was right before you.

“Mahal, Bilbo, please tell us. Why did you leave?” The King sounded ... _Disappointed_ , your father said. _And hurt_ , your mother added. _And confused._

_Really?_ You blinked and wrinkled your nose. “I honestly didn’t think you would notice,” you whispered truthfully, “It’s been weeks since most of you even spoke to me. And since there’s no dinners any more I don’t even get to see you then, so I figured it makes no difference whether I’m in the mountain or not ...” you trailed off.

Bifur mumbled something in Khuzdul and since Dori tutted it probably was a curse.

“Bilbo,” Fili said, stepping next to his uncle, “We are still having our dinners, only you never joined us anymore. We thought ... we thought you had enough of rambunctious male company and food fights, so we didn’t want to pressure you. And you ... you thought we don’t want you there?” He sounded utterly floored.

You rubbed your nose. “I went there, but the room was empty, so I figured you just stopped having the dinners and forgot to tell me.”

The Crown Prince wiped a hand over his face in a rather deflated gesture and muttered something under his breath, looking over his shoulder at his brother, who shook his head sadly. “We’ve just changed rooms, Bilbo,” Fili explained with a sigh, “We’re meeting in one of the recently cleared rooms off the kitchens. Makes it easier with the food and all. Mahal, Bilbo, we truly thought you just didn’t want to come, we never thought you didn’t know …“

_Silly, so silly._ Your father stood with his hands behind his back, looking at you expectantly.

“A misunderstanding then,” you quickly mumbled with a shaky smile, “All good.”

“Is that why you haven’t been eating properly?” Thorin asked carefully, “Missing the Company dinners is one thing, but I know you haven’t been joining us at the communal meals as well. Because you thought we don’t want you around?”

“I’ve been eating just fine,” you protested, ignoring Kili’s snort.

“You’ve been missing a lot of meals,” Bombur chastised in a tone as if he was speaking to a wayward child.

You shot him a glare.

Glóin frowned at you and as if that was his cue Óin barked “You’re too thin, lass.”

_None of that, Master Healer._ Your Mother tapped her foot and frowned.

“It’s not very polite to comment on a female’s weight,” you informed him primly, “And I am not. Too thin that is, thank you very much.”

“Pale you’re too,” the healer barked again, once more either displaying his selective deafness by totally disregarding what you had said.

You huffed. “I am a hobbit. I need sunlight and fresh air. Living in a mountain is already a challenge. Winter was hard. Spending most of my hours in a tiny, dark room, a dusty library or a windowless kitchen is not healthy. I am sure I will lose my pallor while living in Dale, Master Óin, so you can keep your worry.”

The silence that followed your outburst was ringing. _Did Bofur just sniffle? Oh, well._

Your father shook his head in dismay at your manners, the early morning sunlight from the window flickering through his translucent form, but your mother gave a grim nod of approval.

You could see your dwarrow exchanging glances, but you didn’t really care anymore if you hurt their feelings. _Had they learned nothing about hobbits to know that you were a creature of the outside?_ Shaking your head a little in frustration you only looked up when Bofur cleared his throat, his floppy hat not on his head for once but in his big hands, being scrunched up unhappily. “Bilbo,” he said carefully, “When the Lady Dis told us you were about to leave the mountain we went to your room to convince you to stay …” He faltered and his face fell even more.

“There’s nothing _in_ your room, lass,” Gloin didn’t beat about the bush but got to the point with a shake of his head, his eyes sad. “How do you have such a sad little room? You’ve nothing in it. We thought you got yourself more furniture, warm blankets, furs, anything to make the place homier.”

You scoffed. “I could hardly just _take_ things from all over the mountain and take them to my room to make it homier-“

“You would have to be the richest hobbit in all of Arda, Bilbo,” Nori interjected, “And very wealthy even for dwarrow standards, what with your share of the treasure and all. Surely you would use it on some comforts for y-”

Shaking your head firmly you interrupted him. “No, Nori,” you objected firmly, “The very thought of the treasure has brought me little joy and I don’t quite feel the right or the desire to use any of it, what with the disaster with the gold sickness and the Arkenstone and all …”

A collective sigh went through the room and Thorin hung his head with a painful expression on his face.

Heart clenching at the painful memories you hung your head as well and almost missed Dori stepping forward.

The prim dwarf cleared his throat, shaking off Nori’s hand that tried to hold him back. “Bard said you were wearing the same coat from the quest when you got here, the one without buttons?”

You nodded, wiping a hand over your face tiredly. “Yes, Dori, it is still the same coat. And no I have not managed to make myself a new one. And no, I have also not managed to purchase some new buttons. Sewing a coat is beyond my skill, my hands do not have the strength to pull needle and thread through any of the thick fabrics that are available in Erebor. And from the little coin I convinced myself to use I didn’t purchase buttons because-“ You broke off, blushing embarrassed.

“Why not, Bilbo?” Thorin nudged gently.

You bobbed on the balls of your feet for a moment. “It doesn’t matter,” you said firmly.

Thankfully, he let it go. _For now_. The time would come that you had to tell them that you were afraid venturing into the market on your own, after you had gotten knocked over by the multitude of milling dwarrow on a mission and almost got trodden on by steel-capped boots at a couple of occasions.

“I would have given you buttons,” Dori mumbled into his neatly braided beard, followed by “It explains the dress at least,” and you bristled, ignoring Nori’s face palm.

Your mother gasped and balled her fists at the insult.

“Whatever that means, Master Dori,” you said, lifting your chin in defiance, “I have been at your shop but you were too busy to worry about a silly hobbit who needs silly buttons for a silly coat. And yes, I understand it is not the most elaborate dress in all of Arda, even by hobbit standards it is rather plain. And since the fabric is a bit thin for a life deprived of sun, yes, I have been rather cold indeed. But it is in a colour that I like and it is made by my own hands from a fabric that I managed to purchase on my own without getting nearly trampled to death by busy dwarrow in their market place, who care not an ounce about a floundering hobbit. Making it has given me something to do on many a lonely evenings in my dark little room. I have already been chided for its poor make by the Lady Dís; there is absolutely no need to stab into the same wound once more. I apologize if I am such an embarrassment to the Company, what with the way I dress and with how I keep my hair-“

“What’s wrong with your hair?” Dwalin interrupted with a scowl, looking over your curls quizzically.

_Don’t. Just don’t._

“I wouldn’t know, Master Dwalin,” you replied tartly, trying to hold on to yourself best you could. “You’d have to inquire with the Lady Dís why she dislikes it, but I’ll have you know that I’m doing my best without being able to wash it regularly and with no comb-“

“How do you not have a comb, lass?” Balin asked with a frown, “You’ve had your mother’s beautiful silver one on the quest, I remember, even though it was missing a few teeth.”

Your mother nodded, tears shining in her eyes. _So beautiful_ , she whispered, _I was so proud when I had it custom made from dwarrow travelling through Michel Delving._

With a curt nod you confirmed that. “The comb got left behind when I ... left Erebor rather hurriedly just before the battle,” you said, avoiding saying that it was left behind when Thorin nearly threw you off the ramparts. Taking your pack including your comb with you when he banished you hadn’t been a priority. And after the battle your pack had clearly been emptied by eager hands, because the comb was gone. By the look on the dwarrow’s faces they all got your gist. “And it wasn’t there any more after. In any case, my hair is hard work,” you said with a vague gesture to the braid Sigrid had fashioned mere moments ago, which already fell apart, with your stubborn ringlets seeking a life of their own.

“I thought you were busy with your memoirs,” Ori said with a small voice, tears in his eyes. _Oh, Ori._ “That’s why I wasn’t even worried when you didn’t come back to the library. I thought you were taking your time writing your take on the quest.”

You shifted your feet, toeing awkwardly into the threadbare rug of Bard’s office. “I confess that my thoughts have been ... a bit dark of late. While I have written a first draft I realized I needed some distance to continue. There’s no point writing about the great Kingdom of Erebor while sitting in a dark, lonely, miserable room,” you tried to mumble the last words so they wouldn’t be heard. Clearing your throat you continued with more force. “A few weeks in Dale would have changed my outlook, I’m su-.”

“Why did you not take Sting with you?” Dwalin interrupted again.

You blinked a bit, trying to keep up with the sudden change of topic, eyeing the axes on his back, the sword on his side, the small throwing axe on his hip and the knuckle dusters. _Yes, I can see why that bugged the tall dwarf more than the issue with the dress and the coat_. “I won’t need it any more. I am not a weapon’s person, as you are well aware, Master Dwalin, from all your many attempts to make a warrior hobbit out of me.”

“Yet you used Sting to fight spiders, goblins, orcs and wargs. And you saved my life when you stabbed Azog with it,” Thorin interceded gently, the King sounding way too docile for your liking. _Where is the Durin temper?_

“Ah, well, we all know that was mostly sheer dumb luck. And don’t forget that it is no more than a letter-opener, as you all have so aptly reminded me for weeks on the road. Definitely nothing a lowly hobbit like me needs to drag around with her. And now, that I have seen how even your dams are more than proficient in the art of combat I sure feel double useless and dumb.” You swallowed to get the lump in throat away, “So there is your reason,” you said, looking straight at Dwalin, ignoring how you wanted to just hide from the intense look in his grey eyes, “I still have a knife on me, if you must know, and I did keep the Mithril shirt. That will have to be enough.”

_I need to get out of here._ You cleared your throat and straightened your spine. “And now that we have cleared any misunderstandings and you have heard from myself that I willingly went to Dale to help them with cultivating soil and growing things, you can all return to the mountain. I know you are all very busy and I apologize that you felt the need to cut short your patrol and put aside any obligations you may have had today and came all this way in person. I should at least have written a letter.” You nodded for emphasis. _Yes, well said. Polite and to the point._ Your father looked pleased.

Avoiding everybody’s eye you shuddered slightly, suddenly feeling cold. _Now go away so I can hide upstairs in my room._

“A letter,” Dwalin said incredulously, his scowl deepening, “You think writing us a letter would have been sufficient?”

_Ah, well_.

“As I have said before, Master Dwalin,” you began, slightly irritated, “I haven’t seen much of most of you in many weeks, let alone had the pleasure of a conversation. I’m guessing that if the Lady Dís had not told you that I was planning on leaving, it would have taken weeks for you lot to figure out that I was actually gone. So, yes, I do think a letter would have been sufficient. I don’t want to be an inconvenience.”

There was a gasp - _Kili?_ \- and mumbled protests and much head shaking.

Suddenly Dwalin was right in front of you, falling to his knees.

Your eyebrows shot up. _Eh?_

He carefully took one of your hands in his. His hands were so big. And they were so _warm_. “You are and never have been an inconvenience, my dearest Bilbo. Please come back to the mountain with us,” he pleaded most sincerely, his eyes dark and full of emotion, “We have made a terrible mess of things. Nothing went as planned and you suffered. There is no excuse. All we ... that _I_ can do ... is ask you ... beg you ... to come back with us. Please. _Please_ , Bilbo.”

Dwalin was begging you. Big, fierce, confident Dwalin was on his knees, begging. Now, that was unexpected. _And entirely unnecessary_. Your father scowled at you.

“Nothing would change, Dwalin,” you mumbled, feeling a little dizzy as the warmth of his hands seeped into your cold fingers, “You’ll all still be too busy for me. And I still would have nothing to _do_. I cannot live like that. I have been lonelier in Erebor over the past few months than I have been in the Shire since my parents died. There is no space for me in the Lonely Mountain.” The truth of what you said hit you hard at that moment and you sucked in a shaky breath.

You just wanted to sit down and cry.

Dwalin must have read your expression, they all must have, because there was a collective gasp of pain and shock, but Dwalin, big, fierce Dwalin paled and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as if to contain himself.

He lifted your hand to his lips and kissed it.

You froze and the skin where the warrior had placed his kiss tingled.

_How are his lips so soft?_

He looked at you and his eyes were blazing. “Not true, Bilbo,” he rasped, struggling to keep his emotions at bay, “There is a space for you in Erebor. Please come and let us show you.”

“Dwalin is right,” Thorin said and his voice was rough. Instinctively Fili reached out and grasped his uncle’s shoulder, Kili not far behind. “We have made a terrible mess of things. We had the best intentions, but yet again only managed to hurt you. Will you please come back with us, so we can show you what we’re talking about? If you still do not wish to stay in the mountain afterwards, you have my word that we won’t try to persuade you. I will personally bring you back to Dale. Please, Bilbo.”

Now the King was begging you, too. _This is too much_. Your head began to hurt.

“Please, Bilbo,” Fili and Kili said almost in unison. And Balin. “Lass, do it, please,” Bofur begged, followed by a grunt from Bifur and frantic nodding from Bombur. Ori wiped tears from his eyes and Nori slung an arm around his shoulders while Dori folded his hands behind his back and hung his head in sorrow. Óin looked positively miserable and Glóin clutched the medallion with the images of his wife and son, squeezing his brother’s shoulder in silent comfort.

_All of them want you back_ , your mother beamed, her milky white form flickering with excitement.

The looks you got were expectant but rather deflated, as if they were hopeful but didn’t really expect you to say yes anyway, no matter their pleas.

Dwalin was still on his knees before you, still holding your small hand gently in his big palms, close to his heart. His eyes were- And why was he kneeling anyway? _This was such a ... such a ..._

Your father placed his hands on his hips, looking at you sternly. _They are clearly being sincere and it is wrong to have them beg you like this. Say yes already_.

“Alright, I’ll come,” you whispered.

A sigh of relief went around the room. Dwalin closed his eyes again for a moment, a deep breath leaving him with swoosh. “Thank Mahal, lass,” he said softly and rose, not letting go off your hand.

 

 


	3. Atelophobia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a hobbit is shown her space

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> moiety (n) - one of two equal parts / in organic chemistry: a part of a functional group of a large molecule / in anthropology: one or two distinct groups of a tribe / in law: one of two parts of property ownership  
> solivagant (adj) - wandering alone, solitary wandering  
> quatervois (n) - a crossroads, a critical decision or turning point in one’s life  
> atelophobia (n) - the fear of imperfection, of being unworthy, the fear of never being good enough

~*~

  

It didn’t take long and you were settled on a pony - in front of Dwalin and in your coat without the buttons - not after many reassurances from Thorin to Bard that you would be safe, and some whispered words between the two of them, that made Bard smile softly and Thorin nod with determination.

Dwalin’s strong arm around your waist held you safely.

Despite the sun already well up in the sky a cool wind kept the temperatures rather chilly. Even though the whole situation was ... confusing to say the least, you were glad the big dwarf sat behind you, his body like a furnace at your back, keeping you warm.

He had scowled fiercely at the bag with your meagre belongings you had packed once more to take them back to the mountain. All of the Company had eyed them with sad eyes and mumbled unhappily to each other while Bofur and Gloin tied them to their respective ponies.

Sitting with your eyes averted you were terribly embarrassed when your tummy wouldn’t stop grumbling. You were sure Dwalin could not only hear it but also feel it against his arm, because every time your tummy rumbled his muscles tightened.

“Sorry,” you mumbled after a particularly loud complaint from your insides.

“Oh, lass,” he sighed heavily, “Don’t apologize for something that was our fault yet again. We should have waited until you had something to eat before dragging you back.” He muttered darkly in Khuzdul. “It is a wonder you haven’t left us months ago.”

 

~*~

 

Arriving in Erebor was embarrassing. So many stares, so many whispers. You felt like a child that had run away in the dead of night in a tantrum only to be brought back in disgrace awaiting its chiding.

Head low, you avoided all eyes and trudged after Dwalin, who refused to let go of your hand, as if you would disappear on them again; the Company following behind with an air of gravity.

You swallowed hard as you were lead to the Royal Wing.

You had only been here during Thorin’s gold sickness and your memories of the place were not pleasant.

Thorin looked at you and you knew he read your thoughts.

You ducked your head and blushed.

“Bilbo,” his voice was warm, although a little strained, “It is alright. It won’t be nothing like before.”

There were many guards dotted around the wide corridors. Dwalin lead you with unerring steps, not once releasing the gentle pressure on your hand in his.

Down another corridor you went and through a passage and around another bend. _I don’t remember windows being here_ , your mother mused, pointing to several tall, slim windows that let bright daylight into the mountain.

And then Dwalin stopped.

In front of a round, green door.

Your heart stopped. “What-“ you managed, frowning in confusion, sharing a quick glance with the flickering forms of your equally baffled parents.

“We know that a hobbit cannot life in dwarrow mountain halls,” Dwalin explained softly, squeezing your hand, “And ever since you mentioned you wouldn’t be able to return to the Shire we knew we had to make Erebor your home. That is why we ... why I ... decided many months ago to create you your very own space.” He made a grimace. “There were ... obstacles. Unstable rock, a cave-in, goods we ordered that didn’t arrive as we wanted them and people that helped with special items that needed to be pampered. That’s why we were so _busy_. That’s why we had so little time for you. Foolish of us to get caught up in creating you a home and making you feel unwelcome at the same time-” He broke off with a heavy sigh and a shake of his head.

“The plan was to wait for your memoirs of the quest to be finished,” Thorin continued, “To have them bound and have them be your gift to Erebor in a special ceremony, during which we would have given you the key to East Bag End.” The King gestured at the green door, “Your new home. Your place in the Lonely Mountain.”

_??_

You opened your mouth to say something only to snap it shut again when words failed you.

“There are still a few things not quite finished,” Fili warned quietly, “But there’s no way we wait another moment to give this to you.” And he held out a key.

Not a key like the one that opened the secret door. No. This one was altogether of a more round design ... more hobbitish ... but with dwarrow runes engraved on the handle.

Fili gave the key to Dwalin, who lifted your hand that he was still holding in his and gently placed the key into your palm.

“Welcome home, Sanûrzud,” he mumbled with much tenderness in his gruff voice.

 _What does it mean?_ Bungo wanted to know.

You had no idea but you were busy blinking furiously to keep the threatening tears at bay, before managing to lift your eyes to look at the Company, standing there expectantly and timid in a way as you had never seen them before, waiting for you to open the round green door that looked so much like Bag End’s door, to see what they had made for you.

Having learned a fair bit about dwarrow proficiency when it came to creating things and their mastery of detail you had a feeling this would be rather spectacular.

Still, the anticipation made your knees suddenly feel rather weak.

With a deep breath you turned around and pushed the key into the keyhole, turned it and pushed the door open.

_Oh. Sweet. Yavanna._

It took a moment to collect your chin from the ground. Your father pushed past you to get inside.

A beautifully carved, round entrance hall, complete with pegs and space for plenty of coats and boots greeted you. A handwoven round rug in the most glorious greens on the smooth stone floor was inviting to step inside.

Gesturing down the hallway, Balin waved you on. “This way,” he said with a gentle push into your back, “Is your sitting room.”

You followed his instructions and the soft, inviting light ahead. With a hitched breath you looked at the round hobbit windows that bathed the large room in a golden glow. There was a fireplace built from mixed stone, a couple of sofas and very comfortable looking chairs were dotted around side tables and more rugs, all of them drawing the eye to two arm chairs in front of the fire. Thick cushions were everywhere and pots with plants and books covered almost every surface.

The air smelled fresh and homely.

With a giggle, your mother threw herself on one of the sofas, hugging a bright yellow, plump pillow. _It is beautiful_ , she smiled, and pulled her husband down next to her.

You swallowed hard and bent over a pot of gardenias for a whiff.

Watching you carefully the dwarrow seemed almost shy.

With a trembling hand you tugged a lose curl behind you ear. “You ... you made this?” you stammered, lost for words, “All of you made this? For me?”

A chorus of ‘aye’s’ rumbled through the room.

You took another step and gently touched the frame of a painting on the wall that showed the hills of the Shire.

“Have a look,” Kili encouraged at another door and waved his hand for you to come closer.

There was a kitchen. Complete with stove and oven and a little sink.

Running your hand along the marbled kitchen bench top you couldn’t help but beam at Bombur, when you saw the neat row of pots and utensils hanging from the racks.

Dwalin stepped next to you. “There’s two pantries,” he explained, opening one door and then a second, farther down the room. “One for everyday use, the other for barrels and larger jars and such.”

The tall dwarf moved with the ease of someone who had been around the place a fair bit. You blushed when he looked at you and avoided his gaze.

“That’s the dining room,” Thorin said in the next room, moving a beautifully carved wooden chair a little to have it straight, “Plenty of room for all of us, so you can recreate that fabulous meal you served us on the night we met for the first time.”

You smiled widely in fond memory of the chaos of that first day, all their faces lighting up at your expression.

Moving to the table you gently pulled a daisy from the vase of flowers in its middle, twiddling it between your fingers

“There’s also a parlor and a study, a guestroom, as well as a big bathroom and, of course, your bedroom,” Glóin rumbled, “But you can have a look at those later.”

“Go through here now, Bilbo,” Fili suggested, pointing at iron wrought double doors with stained glass inserts, depicting large, bright yellow sunflowers.

Following his directions you walked over, pushing them open curiously; you stared at the sun filled, wide terrace, nestled snug against the side of the mountain, iron wrought balustrades looked like vines and flowers were near smothering them and to the very end of the terrace you could see a large glasshouse.

_Oh, my._

“Is that-“

“Your garden, Bilbo,” Dwalin said with a soft smile, “After all, a hobbit cannot be without a garden.”

Your father let his expert eye roam over the area and nodded appreciative. _It’s nicely done_ , he praised, stroking his chin, bobbing on his feet, looking about ready to dig his hands into the soil. _Plenty of potential_.

You nodded, distracted, taking in the garden beds edged with beautifully cut green stone, the fresh soil piled high, the young trees that waited in burlap sacks to be planted, the wheelbarrow at the side, with a beautiful watering can next to it.

Then your eyes fell on the stone bench.

Your mother squeaked and pulled her husband over to examine it closely.

The stone bench from outside Bag End.

If it wasn’t the same it certainly looked like the very same bench you had sat on so many times. The very same bench your father and mother had sat on while they were alive, too. And were sitting on right now, smiling widely.

Suddenly it was all too much.

You took a shuddering breath.

And another, clutching the daisy to your chest.

You swayed and your legs shook so much that you couldn’t hold yourself up any more and you collapsed on your knees.

_It is too much._

You didn’t _deserve_ this. You were just a _foolish hobbit_ , which never did _anything_ right in her life. Who was plagued with self-doubt and had little confidence in any skill or ability you knew you _didn’t really_ have in the first place. You lacked discipline. You were _nobody_. And sooner or later they’d find out and be rather upset that they spent all this time and effort on something so beautiful just for someone like _you_. Who _didn’t_ deserve it. Who wasn’t special enough for such kindness.

You choked on your breath, only now realizing you had said everything out aloud.

Your shaking hand reached up and covered your mouth, as if trying to coax the words back in, making them unsaid.

Your chest ached and felt too tight and there was no air even though you were outside and you were suddenly dizzy and then your shaking hand felt your wet cheeks and you furiously wiped the tears away; the last thing you wanted was for them to think you were moping selfishly while all they wanted was praise and thanks for their work.

A few fast breaths were meant to try to get yourself under control and breathe the lump in your throat away. Your vision went blurry from the effort.

But the lump grew and suddenly it _burst_.

And you let out a choked sob.

It was as if the floodgates opened and a whole dam of misery, pent up over half a lifetime plus some months, came flowing out. You were powerless to stop it.

Wracked sobs shook you and you hugged yourself, digging your fingernails into your arms in an effort to have the pain anchor you and keep you in the present, crushing the daisy in the process.

To no avail. 

You shivered violently, cold inside and out, while the tears ran down your face.

Then up was down and down was up and you felt like being trapped in thick fog that hindered your sight and muffled all sounds.

There were voices, gentle hands brushing over your forehead and hair.

Dimly you realized strong arms wrapped around you, lifted you off the hard ground. You were wrapped in a blanket and your face was pushed into a solid chest, warm hands rubbed up and down your arms and your back, while soft words were whispered into your ear.

Despite the crying, the feeling of someone strong taking your weight was just such a _relief_ ; the sheer effort of holding yourself together these past months had truly crushed you.

You cried yourself into exhaustion and when you awoke you startled badly, ashamed that you actually had fallen asleep while sobbing and without any words of thanks or appreciation to your dwarrow.

They left you wrapped up warmly, probably waiting in the other room for you to get your act together.

Lifting a hand to wipe over your tear-stricken, blotched face your fingers touched a beard. Jerking away with a squeal you looked up into the calm, serious face of _Dwalin_.

“You ... you’re still here?” you stammered, voice hoarse. _Dooh_. _Stating the obvious_. Your mother leaned over to flick your forehead.

“Aye, I am,” the warrior nodded with a sigh. “Won’t do to leave you all alone while you’re so upset.”

You felt yourself nod.

 _Highly emotional more like,_ your father said and rolled his eyes at you.

“I am sorry,” you mumbled.

Dwalin sighed again. “You’ve got to stop apologizing for things that are not your fault, Sanûrzud. Nobody is angry with you, or disappointed, or whatever it is you feel we ought to be, least of all I.” He smoothed a wayward curl from your forehead, Sigrid’s braid all but undone. “I’ve sent the others away, but I won’t go. I’ll take care of you.” He sounded rather determined.

_Oh dear._

You realized that he was sitting in one of the armchairs by the now lit fireplace with you settled snugly into his lap, wrapped in a warm, soft, copper red blanket. His axes and sword were gone and his chain mail was off, too. He was very warm, despite being only in his tunic, and his strong arms held you tight but gentle and you felt rather drowsily comfortable.

Your tummy chose to pick this peaceful moment to grumble. _Confusticate a hobbit’s need for food_ , you groused at yourself.

But Dwalin smiled fondly and got to his feet with ease, you still in his arms. He marched to the kitchen and placed you into a high chair at the kitchen bench.

“Sit there, Amrâlimê,” it was as gentle as a command could be, “While I get you something to eat.”

With that he turned around and began rummaging in the kitchen, walking into the first pantry and bringing out hard boiled eggs and cold meats, a chicken pie, some cheese and bread. He piled it all onto platters and laid it out before you, placing a plate and cutlery right under your nose. Moving to fill mugs with ale for you and for himself he slid into the seat next to you.

Holding the knife in your hand you motioned to the spread. “You ... you not eating?”

Dwalin never looked past a chance to fill his stomach.

“No, Sanûrzud, I won’t,” he said firmly, “I’ve had far too many meals while you had none. This is yours.” He pushed the cheese closer to you. “Eat.”

 _Not proper_ , your father chastised, folding his arms. Spluttering a little you shook your head. “I ... I couldn’t possibly ... while you just sit here ...” you trailed off weakly.

Dwalin sighed again, a little more exasperated this time, but he pulled a knife from the depths of his tunic and began cutting bits of food, piling them on your plate. He stabbed a slice of cheese with the tip of his knife and shoved the bite into his mouth, chewing pointedly, holding your gaze.

You couldn’t help but grin a little before you followed his lead.

After a few bites you almost forgot he was there, becoming totally absorbed by the task of feeding yourself. You ate slowly and methodically, chewing small mouths full with great care before swallowing. Rarely had a meal tasted so good.

 _Is that my chicken pie recipe?_ inquired your father, lifting a ghostly white finger to prod the golden crust.

When your tummy finally said it had enough for now you emptied the last ale from your mug and pushed the plate away with a content sigh.

Only then you remembered that you were not alone.

Looking up you met Dwalin’s searching eyes. With a blush you looked away again quickly.

“So,” he began und you immediately worried your hands in your skirt, thinking a lecture was coming. Your mind went blank when he reached out and carefully engulfed one hand in his, placing them both on the table, lacing his fingers through yours.

“So,” he said again, “Bilbo, as Bard will no doubt be sitting on ants to have reassurance that we do not keep you against your will you’ll have to let me know: will you stay in this home we have created for you? At least for now?” He faltered suddenly. “I realize that it will take a lot more than just presenting this place to you just like that, shoving you into it and thinking all is well again; we all do know it will take a lot more effort to make up for our blatant neglect.” He frowned at himself looking rather grim all of a sudden.

You sighed, looking from your entwined fingers on the kitchen benchtop to the painted tiles, the round window with the stained glass, depicting birds sitting on tree branches, and the pots and pans hanging from the rack. The place sang home and pulled on your heartstrings. Your father nudged you.

“I do not deserve something so beautiful,” you whispered, hanging your head, “But I will stay. Maybe ... maybe I can invite Bard to tea to show him? He’ll be at ease then.”

Dwalin’s rough thumb rubbed over the skin on the back of your hand. He hummed at your first statement but didn’t comment. “Bard will love that, I’m sure,” he said instead. “Maybe he should bring his daughters?”

Your face lit up at the idea. “Yes, that would be wonderful. I’d have someone to talk to for an afternoon,” you blurted out without thinking.

The big dwarf suddenly choked and shook his head with a shudder. “Oh, Bilbo.”

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” you whispered, pressing your lips together embarrassed. _Nice one, Bilbo._ Both your parents shoot their heads at you.

Dwalin sighed and wiped a hand over his face. “If I had to drink a dozen mugs of ale every time you said sorry about something you don’t have to be sorry about I’d not be sober again in this life,” he commented wryly and looked up at you with mirth in his eyes, despite the exasperation in his voice.

You snorted a little amused. “I’m not apologizing for something I don’t have to be sorry for,” you protested, “I mean-” you faltered, trying to put it into words how you were feeling.

 _I am so confused_. You felt still quite exhausted, and the full tummy made you a little sleepy. It felt like your mind was going in circles and you still didn’t quite manage to make sense of things.

“Why are you here, Dwalin?” you asked quietly, cautiously, “I mean, you are so important in the mountain, surely you can’t be sitting with me for such a long time. Don’t you ... I don’t know ... have sentinels to question or patrols to meet ... or guards to train? I’m sure Latág is missing you at the sparring ring.” You couldn’t help having a little snide tone in your voice at the mention of the dams name, and you huffed at yourself in annoyance, trying to pull your hand away from Dwalin’s to cross your arms before your chest in a rather ridiculous effort to hide.

But he didn’t let go. Instead he turned in his chair to fully face you, turned you around as well, and lifted your hand to his broad chest, opening your fingers gently so that the flat of your palm lay on the spot where his heart was beating with a steady thrum.

“Latág,” he began gravely, “Is an old friend from the times in Erebor before Smaug. We’re roughly the same age, she and I. While dwarrow largely have a tendency to brood and scowl - as I’m sure you’ve learnt during the quest - there is a minority amongst our kind that embraces a happy, joyous way of life. Like Bofur, and Kili. Frerin, Thorin’s brother, was like that, as well as Vili, Dís’ late husband. And Latág is like that, too. Those happy souls have gone a long way in dire times, to keep our spirits up and let us not forget that there is laughter in this world, even for dwarrow.”

You hung your head, suddenly embarrassed. _Childish, I am childish_. You were about to say you were sorry without thinking when a broad finger to your lips silenced you. Looking up a little startled you saw he was smiling and shaking his head. Blushing fiercely you blinked at him. He removed his finger and continued. “Latág met her One when she was not even of age. She’s been happily married to a successful merchant for almost a century. He’ll join us by the end of the year, needing the extra time to wind down his business in Ered Luin. Sadly, they have not been blessed with pebbles. She has retained her joyful spirit, regardless. Latág was the one that visited the Thain on my behalf, to inquire about blueprints of Bag End or any other smial, so I could begin the planning for your home.”

Your father leant forward from his spot near the oven with great interest showing on his face at that revelation.

Dwalin paused a moment to let that information sink in.

“It was also her who hired a young hobbit, Logil Twofoot, I believe, thanks to the Thain’s recommendation, who is a rather gifted artist. The lad drew pictures of hobbit furniture, carvings, flowerpots, doors, gardens, gates, flowers, hobbit windows, tea sets, carpets, clothing, anything and everything he and Latág could think of that could be of use for us here, with our project. Quite a few ravens flew back and forth between the Shire, Ered Luin and Erebor to get all this done. And Olinda, who is the very wealthy widow of a caravan organizer in the Iron Hills was the one who agreed to divert one of her caravans to have two wagons with items from the Shire join it and have them delivered to us. She is a nice enough dam but a shrewd business woman, Balin had his hands full getting her to agree on a few trade deals in recompense for her efforts. Sadly,” here his face darkened, “Not all things bought from the Shire were acceptable quality, much of the fabrics and rugs left a great deal to be desired, clearly some hobbits didn’t think we could tell the difference. Which is why Dori was working hard to find willing dams with skills with the needle to assist him with some of the embroidery work. For the bedsheets and curtains and such. And Nori,” the warriors frown deepened even more, “Nori hooked up with some of his more reliable contacts in Ered Luin and if Bag End is missing a few items that made their way to Erebor I couldn’t care less about it. That cousin of yours, Lobelia, she is a nasty piece of work; it’s saying something to get Latág angry.”

Your father sat down looking rather shaken. _Lobelia has Bag End? And thieves have removed items from it to bring to Erebor?_

Your mother put an arm around his shoulder. _As long as the things end up with Bilbo, I don’t care. And I quite like Nori._ She winked at Bilbo. _I’ve always said he is very resourceful_.

Dwalin ran a hand through his beard before continuing. “Ori and Poula were working on copying books for you; some of the tomes from the library Ori knew you had read with much interest too thick and cumbersome to bring here, so they divided their content, creating a few volumes instead. They’re not quite finished.” He let out a breath in a swoosh. “Bifur and Bofur did all the wood work for the doors, floors and walls, Fili and Kili worked mostly on the garden, carting in the soil, building the glasshouse, but also made the flowerpots and organized the vases and all the plants - with some help from the leaf-eaters, thanks to Kili’s elf. Thorin built all the furniture, including the cabinetry for the kitchen and the pantries; it’s not his craft, as you know he’s a blacksmith, but he was adamant to push himself. Bombur is an architect by trade, so he made sure the stone is safe, which wasn’t easy as parts became unstable after we’d begun work when one of the lower corridors caved in, causing a chain-reaction all the way to up here. It took a while to sort out and threw us back several weeks. Bombur also made sure your kitchen and pantry were stocked as they should be. Glóin had his hands full handling all the purchases and payments, Óin, it turns out, is quite skilled in weaving, it would have been his craft had he not been a healer; he made all the rugs and carpets. And I did all the iron work for the double doors, the balustrade in the garden, cut the gems to fasten into the windows, cut the slab for the kitchen bench, forged the ladles, scissors, garden tools, pots, coat pegs, door hinges and any other thing that is made of iron and silver all around your home. All hobbit sized.”

You swallowed hard, trying to absorb the information. Your heart raced. _So much effort and work._

“Why?” you rasped out, “I would have been content with just one room with a small window to see the sun. You’ve all made such an _effort_ , so much work, so much trouble, just for me, and I-“

“But it would never do to see you just _content_ , Bilbo,” he interrupted earnestly. “You need to be _happy_. I want to see you smile. I want to see you enjoy your life. In Erebor. In my home. Which I want to be your home, too.” He scrubbed a hand over his bald head. “I understand that you have been alone for a very long time, needing not much, _wanting not much_. From what the Thain told Latág you didn’t leave Bag End in years, joined no party, no family gathering, had no visitors calling on you either. Which is a bit of a surprise, considering he is your grandfather - something you conveniently left out in the few things you told us about the Shire by the way.” Dwalin’s tone was the gentlest of scolding and you wrinkled your nose a little and shrugged. “Aye, I understand now that it didn’t really matter, considering he didn’t bother much about you either. In all these years he never found the time to regularly call upon you? It left all of us rather outraged, let me tell you, to learn how little your family cares about you. It is not the way with dwarrow. Family is everything.” He sighed heavily, shaking his head. “Big words indeed, considering how we neglected you just as they did.”

“I ... I am not ... You didn’t neglect me ...” you said slowly, trying to explain. “It’s just ... I was alone for so long and it never bothered me, not really. Yes, maybe I was merely content and not happy, but I didn’t realize that. Then you lot came along. And I wasn’t alone any more. I _liked_ not being alone any more. And I got used to it. And since I can’t go back ... I never expected to be involved in all the grand dealings of the Kingdom, Yavanna knows I’d be mortified ...” you swallowed hard and continued in a whisper, “But I had hoped to carve myself a tiny space that I can call home. And in which I wouldn’t be so alone again. But then you were all so _busy_ ... and I thought ... and I couldn’t do that anymore. I just couldn’t. That’s why I thought I’d better leave. Not because I don’t love you all so very much. But because I just couldn’t handle being alone again. Not after everything that has happened.” Tears filled your eyes. _Oh, no not again_. You huffed when one dripped down your lashes and ran down your nose.

Your mother huffed impatiently and began patting down her dress in search for a handkerchief.

Dwalin pulled on the wrist of the hand that was still pressed against his steadily beating heart and suddenly you were in his arms. A big palm cradled the back of your head and your nose was pressed into his collarbone, where his tunic soaked up the traitorous hot tears.

“Aye, Amrâlimê, I understand,” he whispered into your hair, his rumble becoming impossibly soft, “I understand. Much could have been avoided if you and I would have just _talked_. It will not happen again, my Bilbo, that you and I don’t talk, I promise you that. Much blame is falling on me, for I knew what you are to me the moment you opened the door of Bag End. But I was so _confused_ that Mahal would choose a hobbit as the other half of my soul. So confused, my Bilbo. I needed some time to find my trust in our Maker. And while I struggled with my convictions I observed you, studied you. Saw how determined you can be, how mentally strong, stubborn even. How brave also, and how so very big your heart is. I was utterly sure about my feelings since the Carrock. But how could I declare myself when you were to be sent into the mountain to steal from a dragon? So I held my tongue. And then, after the battle, I thought you’ll never accept me for what did I have to offer? Weapons, riches? You’ve made it very clear that you don’t care about gold and jewels. I knew I wanted to build you a home. And then Ori remembered that your father built Bag End for your mother, to woo her. So I wrote to the Thain, and here we are.”

He pulled back a little and lifted your face to look right at him. “I love you, Bilbo Baggins. You are the other half of my soul. Before, when you cried so wretchedly, it tore my heart to pieces, I cannot endure that again. And to hear that you think so little of yourself when you mean the world to me, to all of us …” He trailed off, sighing sadly. “But now, that we sit here together in peace and quiet, I feel whole and complete, for the first time in my life. Bilbo,” he swallowed, rubbing a thumb over your cheek, “I know it is much to take in. And I’ll not pressure you, for I know hobbits don’t have One’s, but-“

“You are everything that I am not,” you found yourself blurting out. Dwalin’s eyes widened a little at that, followed by a confused frown. “I mean,” you continued quietly, “You are so strong, know how to fight, have such discipline in everything you do, you are also confident, and proud of who you are. I am none of those things. How could Mahal pair me with you?”

He looked at you thoughtfully. “Maybe Mahal wants us to work hard to find all the things where we are alike. Or where we complement each other.”

“Such as?” you couldn’t think of anything out of the top of our hat.

“Well,” he cleared his throat and smirked a little, “You like to cook, I like to eat.” You snorted just a little before your father did and Dwalin’s grin widened. “You are an exceptional baker and I have a sweet tooth. I am strong enough for the both of us, and I’ll never let you near a fight or a battle ever again, you’ve been through too many already.” His face turned serious. “As to my supposed confidence, it’s true I know who I am and where my skills lie, but I also am very much aware of my shortcomings, and there are plenty.” His eyebrows rose when you scoffed at that. “I am gruff, and I am known to be too blunt and too rough. I have no patience with liars and I value honour maybe more than I should. I also judge too quickly, something I should have learned not to do in the long years I’ve lived. And aye, I’m proud to be a dwarf, proud to be a son of Fundin and a friend to Thorin. But I am also proud to have Mahal pair me with a gorgeous little hobbit lass who has not only saved my King countless times, but also me and my kin, and who is the one and only reason we have reclaimed Erebor.” Dwalin’s voice was laced with pride.

 _Did he say gorgeous?_ You couldn’t help the deep blush that spread from your heated cheeks to the tips of your ears, blushing even more when he noticed and grinned a little.

“But a lot of your kind won’t quite agree with that,” you mumbled eventually, “They’ll see me a nuisance, an embarrassment, just like Dís-“

“Dís was in charge for keeping the dams or anybody else who might spoil our surprise away from you,” Dwalin interrupted, “You think she dislikes you, but it is really the other way around: she thought you don’t care much for her. It was she who picked up on the fact that you got thinner and thinner and it was she who saw you sitting alone in the library one day, shivering in your thin dress, blowing into your hands in an attempt to warm them. And your beautiful hair ...” he let a long curl run through his fingers, “It has lost all of its shine and luster. She was worried and when she invited you to tea she tried to figure out what was going on. When she realized that you thought we had forgotten about you and were about to leave the mountain ... she nearly took my beard for being so stupid.”

You grimaced, rather chagrined. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled, “I was rather rude to her. I’ll apologize, I promise.”

He hummed with a little sigh. “You’ll find she won’t accept an apology as to her eyes you’ve done nothing that warrants to be apologizing for. On the contrary: she’s looking forward to becoming your friend. So is Latág, by the way, it was rather hard to keep her occupied and away from you. I promise you will like them both.” He tapped your nose gently with a broad finger.

Giving a small nod you suddenly felt very self-conscious, realizing that you were still in his arms. “What ... what happens now?” you asked in a small voice.

“Well, for now I think maybe you should sleep some more,” he carefully traced over the dark shadows under your eyes with a blunt finger, “Then eat some more, and then explore your new home. As Fili said, not everything’s quite finished yet, but maybe that’s a good thing and you’ll enjoy putting on the finishing touches yourself.”

Stifling a yawn at his mention of sleep you couldn’t do more than nod again, your mind suddenly too tired to deal with more and your limbs too heavy to be willing to move.

“Alright then,” he said softly, taking your body’s reaction as answer, “You stay right where you are, Amrâlimê, and I’ll go and let the others know that you’re not going anywhere and ask Thorin to send a raven to Bard to tell him all is well and he should expect an invitation to tea soon. And then I’ll see to it that you’re warm and comfortable, and your sleep undisturbed.”

With that he got to his feet, placed a whiskery kiss on your forehead and walked down the hallway to the front door.

As soon as he was gone and with him his furnace-like warmth you shivered. Tucking the blanket that had slipped off your shoulders tightly around your body you hopped off the chair and trudged into the sitting room, curling up into the armchair by the fireplace.

You were as good as dozing off when Dwalin returned, stoking the fire before lifting you up. You mumbled a weak protest but he shhhd you and sat back down, cradling you in his arms on his lap once more. You sighed when a big hand buried itself in your hair, gently massaging your scalp, and snuggled deeper into the big dwarf’s warmth.

 

~*~

 

You couldn’t tell how long you slept, but when you woke the fire had long burnt down but Dwalin hadn’t moved and you felt warm and comfortable. You managed to stay awake just long enough to yawn and curl a hand into his tunic just over his heart, before dozing off again.

The second time you woke was because your tummy rumbled.

He chuckled when you became restless and struggled to get comfortable once more. “My hobbit needs to be fed,” he grinned, carrying you to the kitchen again and repeating his treatment from earlier, only this time with hot tea, bread, butter, jam and honey. You looked at him pointedly and he rolled his eyes and again reached over to steal food from your plate.

The sun shone through the round kitchen window with its gem-glassed pictures, painting red, blue and yellow specks over the room. It was beautiful. You told him. And all your breath left you and your heart skipped a beat when he gave you one of the big smiles you had seen him give only to Latág and the boys.

After that he showed you the bath, and you tested the big, comfortable copper bath tub and the plumbing. When you were clean and dressed in one of the new dresses you found in the wardrobe in your beautiful bedroom with the prettiest window facing over the garden you sat down at the stool before the dresser and looked at yourself in the polished brass looking glass.

You barely recognized yourself. The hobbit from the Shire was no more. This was not the face of a hobbit who still saw herself as a child and listened to her parents voices in her head just to escape the silence in her life. This was the serious face of a grown hobbit lass, who had seen and done things no hobbit before her had seen and done.

You swallowed, tracing your fingers over your cheek bones. You were never a proper hobbit, with the plumpness that came with it, but now your features were sharp, all cheekbones and big eyes. The eyes of the hobbit in the looking glass were large and had depth. Serious eyes. Wise eyes.

Reaching up to your hair you pulled a damp curl until the strand was straight. _Dwalin is right, it looks dull and … unhappy_. It reached all the way to your hips. It had grown so much.

“You are beautiful,” a voice said softly and you looked up at Dwalin, who leaned against the doorframe with his muscled arms folded, his eyes dancing over your features and the earthy brown silk dress you were wearing, with rich, bright yellow embroidery around the sleeves and the neckline. The fabric of the white blouse was soft and comfortable.

You ducked your head with a blush and a shy smile.

“May I do your hair?” he asked and you could tell he held his breath awaiting your answer. You knew that dwarrow held great pride in their hair and beards. In a way they were more important than the clothes they wore. And tending to each other’s hair or beard was a matter of great privilege, reserved solely for family, very close friends ... or partners.

Even though you still had the nagging voice in your head question why someone like him would want someone like you, Mahal paired or not, you suddenly felt that you had enough of that voice. You actually did want to feel his hands in your hair, it had been the best feeling when he massaged your scalp while you fell asleep – and in a way you were already past the point of no return in that regard.

You looked at the hobbit in the looking glass and in her eyes you found the confirmation.

So you nodded with a shy smile. “Yes, please.”

His eyes lit up and his face split in a huge grin. Stepping behind you he carefully ran his hands down your locks.

“My hair is hard work,” you tried to warn him.

He hummed, beginning to comb his fingers through the damp length of it. “I’m a dwarf, I know how to handle hair,” he said with confidence, “And it’s both a pleasure and a privilege to be allowed to handle yours.”

You reached out to take the beautiful silver comb, gorgeously decorated with small flowers crafted from tiny gemstones, from the dresser and handed it to him.

Taking it with a nod he caught your eyes when your fingers touched. He swallowed and cleared his throat.

“I am sorry your comb went missing,” he said roughly, focusing on your hair with a scowl, “It’s not to be done, to go through another person’s pack, and if I find who did it they’ll wish they had never been born.”

“It doesn’t matter,” you heard yourself say and were surprised to find that it really didn’t matter.

“It was your mother’s and-“ he growled.

“It was a bent and broken item that had long outlived its use and practicality,” you interrupted, “I’ll never forget her and I’ll always love her, but it’s time I moved on. And I do find I like the comb you made for me much more,” you added softly, “It is beautiful. And you made it for me.”

His fingers stilled and he swallowed again. “Bilbo,” he began, and he was obviously struggling to find the right words, “I know hobbits don’t have One’s and just because you’re mine doesn’t mean ...” he broke off and frowned at his hands in frustration, “I don’t want you to feel as if you-“

“Hobbits may not have One’s,” you interrupted gently, catching his eyes in the looking glass, “But the Green Lady has given us great instinct in all things natural. And as such, my heart recognizes its Heart Call. I have known for a long while. Since Bag End, really. But like you, I didn’t quite believe it. I’m still not sure I fully do,” you whispered and blushed again, “But I promise I try.”

He grinned widely at that, showing his teeth, and bent to kiss the crown of your head. Then he continued to patiently comb through your tangled curls, separated your hair in sections and weaved two braids, one of each side of our head, bringing them together in your neck and securing them in a bun.

It was neither a way dwarrow carried their hair, nor the way of hobbits, but it was perfect for you.

Perfect, coming from Dwalin.

You smiled up at him. “I love it,” you said and he beamed at you, “Thank you.”

 

~*~

 

The rest of the day was spent getting to know your new home.

East Bag End.

You weren’t sure you liked the name but Dwalin told you it hadn’t been a deliberate decision to name your home such, it had just happened when Glóin kept sorting orders and payments under that name - and somehow it got stuck when they kept referring to it with that name during their discussions. You couldn’t think of anything better and weren’t the best names the ones that just came about without much planning? It was not the hobbit way to be too elaborate with such things and you had better things to do.

Like going into every room and testing every piece of furniture, touching smooth walls of stone and wood, running your hands over the fabric of embroidered curtains and bedsheets, lying on your tummy on a soft rug and watching the light dance through the coloured windows.

Dwalin left you alone for the most part and didn’t bother you with much talk unless you asked him questions about this item or that.

He didn’t however move from your side all day.

Which was good, because when you went into one of the unfinished parlors and began unpacking one of several chests containing items Nori’s friends had ‘found’ in Bag End you turned into a blubbering mess once more.

Cradling your parents portraits you wept as your heart ached, wishing so desperately you could see them as they would be now, much older, but solid and real and alive, and not their diminished, imaginary forms from years past; have long, happy conversations with them over tea, spend time with your father in your kitchen, cooking his famous recipes, and with your mother in your as yet unfinished study, sorting through the books and pinning maps on the wall to mark where you had been.

And have them meet Dwalin.

Dwalin, who scooted closer without a word, pulled you into his arms and simply held you while you cried hot tears. When you had calmed yourself into small hiccups, your nose buried in his beard, he leaned back a little to look into your face. His gaze was soft, worry and tenderness in his eyes in equal measure.

“Sorry,” you whispered hoarsely.

He hummed and carefully wiped your tears away. “Six more mugs of ale,” he said with a fake exasperated sigh, “I’ll be singing a bawdy tune soon if you keep going like this.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, but then more tears came, because he was just so _gentle_ with you.

“Sorry,” you mumbled again without thinking, when they finally subsided.

Dwalin shook his head, lifting your chin to look at him. “New plan,” he said firmly, “Forget the ale: from now on, every time you say sorry when there’s nothing to be apologizing for, I will kiss you.”

Your breath caught in your throat and you stared at him. He didn’t budge but held your gaze steadily until you blinked a few times. “Alright,” you breathed weakly.

“Alright,” he nodded.

 

~*~

 

By midday he packed some food in a basket, wrapped you into a lovely soft, plum coloured blanket and dragged you outside into your garden.

Settling you on the stone bench, which was indeed the one from Bag End he told you - you so would have loved to see Lobelia’s face when she discovered it was missing - Dwalin again piled food on your plate, but this time you stilled his hands and took over, cutting pieces of cooked ham and pickled cucumbers, feeding him from your fork.

He was not a hobbit, but he must have picked up what it meant to be fed from the hands of another in such a way at some stage during all the correspondence with the Thain, or maybe Latág did and told him, because his ears turned the loveliest shade of red.

You sat in compatible silence, eating from each other’s forks. You felt warm and comfortable with Dwalin at your side. He was a safe, solid presence that made you feel utterly comfortable. _Yes, I can live like this_. And you told him, earning yourself another wide smile.

And then you told him all the things that stone bench would have witnessed over its years, and all the stories your parents had told you about the building of Bag End and your father’s successful wooing of Belladonna Took.

He laughed a lot, a lovely sound rumbling through his strong body, about the tender arguments and fights your parents had over the years, their vast differences in character always present, but also their great love for each other, which made them overcome any disagreements with much grace, passion and tenderness.

You cried again when you told him about their deaths and the long, lonely years after.

And when you apologized for crying he followed through with his promise regarding your unnecessary apologies.

It was rather lovely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sanûrzud - perfect (true/pure) sun  
> Amrâlimê - Love of mine
> 
> I had the best time looking up visual inspiration for this chapter. So many talented metal and wood workers in our world :) And I do love stained glass windows. Check out images on Pinterest: Cuptivate. This story has its own board.


	4. Eudaimonia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of gems and flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter. Short and sweet. Thank you everyone for reading. 
> 
> moiety (n) - one of two equal parts / in organic chemistry: a part of a functional group of a large molecule / in anthropology: one or two distinct groups of a tribe / in law: one of two parts of property ownership  
> solivagant (adj) - wandering alone, solitary wandering  
> quatervois (n) - a crossroads, a critical decision or turning point in one’s life  
> atelophobia (n) - the fear of imperfection, of being unworthy, the fear of never being good enough  
> eudaimonia (n) - lit. ‘human flourishing’, a contented state of being happy and healthy and prosperous

“Are you ready, Namadith?” came Balin’s voice.

You cut another flower and put it into the basket with the rest. “I am, Balin,” you said, getting to your feet and brushing the wrinkles off your dress.

Picking up the basket you rushed inside, carefully closing the double doors to the garden behind you.

The white haired dwarf looked at you with a smile. “You are looking radiant, Bilbo,” he complimented, stroking his beard, his eyes darting over the silk dress in the light blue of hedge sparrow eggs, richly decorated with floral embroidery in green, white and pink. The lace apron had come from your glory box, made by your mother’s own hands. Dori had been most impressed, a reaction that had you forgive him for his thoughtless words about your green dress. In fact, the prim dwarf was most humble when you offered to show him how lace work was done. He supplied you with the material and you spent many happy hours crafting the very scarf you now wore over your shoulders, as well as the ruffles at your sleeves, while Dori observed, served you tea and kept a light and pleasant conversation.

You blushed at the compliment. “I’m not quite done yet,” you confessed, brushing your lose curls and the braid with your betrothal bead back over your shoulder.

“I am not sure what you could possibly improve about your appearance, Namadith, but we have some time yet,” the old dwarf chuckled.

“I keep telling her the same, Nadad,” came Dwalin’s grumbling voice from the hallway where he was busy strapping his various weapons to his body, “But Dís tells me I am a lout and know nothing of fashion or females.” He walked into the room, looking very dashing in a black leather armour with Mithril and silver fastenings.

You giggled. It sounded like something Dís would say. Dwalin had been right. She and Latág had become your friends in the few months since you had moved into East Bag End.

“Don’t tell me you’re agreeing with her, Amrâlimê,” Dwalin said, waggling his eyebrows in a teasing way.

“I am sorry,” you smiled, taking his big hand and pulling him towards the table where you had left the basket.

He eyed you fondly. “I am beginning to think you’re doing it on purpose,” he commented, his voice going deep.

“Maybe,” you grinned at him and tilted your head up to receive your kiss for apologizing for something you didn't need to be apologizing for. He took his time, and probably would not have stopped just yet if not for Balin eventually pointedly clearing his throat.

“We _had_ some time yet but now we really should not delay any longer,” he interrupted with a chuckle, “Naturally, the King won’t announce your betrothal and declare the feast to begin without the both of you there, but it is never wise to leave hungry dwarrow waiting.”

With difficulty you pulled away from Dwalin’s lips and smiled up at him. He hummed, eyes crinkling in the corners, and pulled you back for a quick peck before straightening and looking over the flowers in the basket. “So, what have you got?” he asked, having learned much of the intricacies of flower language by now.

You lifted out a bloom and threaded it through a special clasp that attached to his chain mail. “Honeysuckle to say that we enter _bonds of love_ ,” you said, “Lavender to declare my _devotion_ ,” you added the third stem, “and red salvia to tell the world that you are _forever mine_.” Rising on your tiptoes you kissed him.

He hummed again and held a hand out to his brother who placed a velvet satchel in his palm. “Can’t send my hobbit lass to her betrothal feast without giving her flowers of my own,” Dwalin said and tugged at the satchel’s strings to open it, holding it out for you to reach inside.

You did and carefully lifted the flower crown from its wrapping. They were not real flowers, but you only knew it because you could feel the metal in your hand. By looks alone you would not have been able to tell at first glance.

Smooth metal and shining gemstones wound in a delicate circle of fragile looking stems and leaves woven together with yellow tulips, white honeysuckle, pink yarrow, red salvias and sprigs of lavender.

You sucked in a breath and blushed fiercely. “Oh, Dwalin, it is beautiful.”

“Glad you like it,” he said, pleased, “Nothing can tell my love for you more than this, for it says all there is to say in words that hobbits understand as well as in words that dwarrow understand.” He pointed to the flower crown. “Mithril for eternity, emeralds for compassion, white diamonds for commitment, amethyst for beauty, citrine for happiness, rose quartz for love, red carnelian for passion.”

You held this extraordinary piece of dwarrow craftsmanship reverently.

“May I place it on your head, Sanûrzud?” he asked softly, smiling at you.

“Yes, please,” you nodded eagerly and he chuckled, taking it and lifting it to gently rest it on your curls. Ever since Dwalin took care of your hair every day it was no longer unmanageable but it was soft and it shone and nothing gave you more joy than sitting still and letting him brush and braid your long locks. The flower crown was light and comfortable, and it fit perfectly.

“Nicely done, Naddith,” Balin nodded his approval.

“Thank you, Kurdun,” you said, threw your arms around his neck and hugged your dwarf, pleased when your mention of the Khuzdul word sent a shiver through his body. “Men lananubukhs me,” you whispered into his ear.

He shivered again and his strong arms came around to hug you. “Zi abnâmul,” he responded.

When you pulled the round green door of East Bag End shut on your way out you were pleased to see the wispy remnants of your parents follow you, wide smiles on their faces; but then a friendly breeze from one of the wide open high windows in the corridor of the Royal Wing simply blew them away.

You turned to look at Dwalin, who stood and waited patiently for you to be ready. Locking eyes you both smiled.

He held out his large hand and you placed yours inside without hesitation, the both of you following Balin down the corridor and into a bright future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honeysuckle - bonds of love - white - diamond: commitment  
> lavender - devotion - purple - amethyst: beauty  
> yellow tulip - sunshine in your smile - yellow - citrine: happiness  
> yarrow - everlasting love - pink - rose quartz: for love  
> red salvia - forever mine - red - red carnelian: passion  
> leaves - emerald - compassion
> 
> Namadith - Sister that is young  
> Amrâlimê - Love of mine  
> Nadad - Brother  
> Naddith - Brother that is young  
> Sanûrzud - perfect (true/pure) sun  
> Kurdun - heart-man, literally, but can also mean ‘man of my heart’  
> Men lananubukhs me - I love you  
> Zi abnâmul - You are beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> It can be a sign of trauma from grief to see the deceased person in your mind and have conversations with them. For the sake of this story I have pushed it a bit to the extreme.


End file.
